


It Works Out in the Play

by charactershoes



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: F/F, High School Musical AU, M/M, absolutely no basketball sorry about that hsm purists, alana/jared friendship, everybody loves a jazz square, galaxy gals on main, high school theater is not a fucking joke, mrs. darbus is there bc she had to be, the cursed au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-07-28 11:28:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,669
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16240694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charactershoes/pseuds/charactershoes
Summary: Alana Beck wants the lead in the spring musical. She wants her best acquaintance and perpetual co-star Jared Kleinman to stop treating high school theater like a big joke. She wants to destroy Zoe Murphy and Evan Hansen's lives before callbacks, lest they turn her senior show into some weepy heterosexual slog. She wants to be Zoe Murphy's friend, or maybe just to hold her hand.HSM au.





	1. start of something new

**Author's Note:**

> this is me hitting rock bottom, probably!! also it's nowhere near new year's so sorry about that. consider this me giving you permission to go crack open some champagne or, like, wear a fun party hat while you read. 
> 
> inspired by [THIS](https://charactershoesfic.tumblr.com/post/176486930485/jfbkakfllfka-the-high-school-musical-referencetumblr) post

Alana Beck is really good at New Year’s Resolutions. Like, it’s not a competition obviously. But if it was, she would win. She is  _ really  _ good at New Year’s Resolutions. 

For example two years ago she resolved to get more serious about flossing and then at her dental check-up in April, the dental hygienist suggested that she “cool it, maybe, with the flossing,” lest she shred her own gums. Alana considers this a victory. 

Previous resolutions have also included: earning a blackbelt in karate, selling the most girl scout cookies in the tristate area, learning to belt a high-C, and reading the unabridged entirety of  _ Infinite Jest.  _ (Overrated, if you ask Alana, but the point was not  _ enjoyment _ . The point was  _ achieving _ .)

Alana is good at achieving. Too good, some might say. Well, Jared would say. Jared says lots of rude and negative things to Alana, but she and her dads have had a lot of thoughtful discussions about Jared and have concluded that high school is difficult and toxic masculinity doesn’t just hurt women, so now Alana is pretty good at ignoring him. 

For example for the past hour he has been texting her a pretty consistent stream of sarcastic suggestions about what her New Year’s Resolution should be this year:

_ get really into juggalo culture _

 

_ to solve the one mystery that’s haunted this grizzled old detective for years: love _

 

_ Idk why don’t you resolve to read infinite jest or something. that feels cliche and nerdy _

_ Bet you’ve already read it actually god your life is sad _

Alana’s life is not sad. She has healthy gums and she can kick through a plank of wood and she can belt a high fucking C. She exudes the confidence of a girl who sold the most Girl Scout cookies in the tristate area. Which is probably why nobody at this party wants to talk to her. They’re intimidated by her confidence. 

So, no, her life is not sad. She’s standing in the corner at this weird Just For Teens New Year’s Party at the ski lodge, and she’s got a red solo cup full of mini spring rolls. Across the room, some white girl is standing on the karaoke stage, shrieking her way through “And I Am Telling You I'm Not Going.” It’s… deeply Caucasian. 

Alana looks around for a Not-White person to make knowing, pained eye contact with. But alas, it’s a misguided effort. This is a ski lodge for rich white people. This is a party for the teenaged children of rich white people. Instead, she makes eye contact with some girl across the room who’s looking at her curiously. 

Alana feels a little bit anxious about being Looked At, but then she reminds herself of her exemplary gums and her black belt. She straightens her dress and stares right back. Eye contact is not a competition, obviously. But if it was, she would win.  The girl across the room seems to realize that she’s met her match, because her curious stare kinda turns into a soft smile and then she gives Alana a little, awkward wave. She looks away, leaving Alana to her solo cup of spring rolls and several new texts from Jared. 

_ resolution: get haunted and then fuck the Ghost  _

_ Ghost busts in YOU  _

_ get it _

 

_ 1024×576, 1152×648, 1280×720, 1366×768, 1600×900, 1920×1080, 2560×1440, 3840×2160 _

_ Haha get it it’s like jpeg resolutions or whatever  _

 

Alana’s dads suggested that she attend this party, and Alana agreed because- Well, she doesn’t really know why she agreed. Alana is good at parties, but mostly she’s good at Adult Parties which mostly just involve a lot of introductions and weird, wry jokes about how firm the Gouda is. She’s not too good at parties with her actual peers. 

Okay, maybe she said yes because sometimes she thinks her dads worry about her. 

She doesn’t give them many reasons to worry. She’s kinda crushing it, in general. But she’s not too good at having fun. Last month in an email, Alana’s guidance counselor called her “driven, to the point of mania.” Alana took this as a compliment. But all of a sudden her dads were talking about Unplugged Sundays where nobody was allowed to check their email during dinner and the next thing she knew, they were driving up to Vermont for a whole week of skiing.  

So here she is, standing in the corner at a teenaged party. Her tights are itchy and she feels like maybe her skirt is a little too long. She looks like some weird, prim person who can’t have fun. Maybe she  _ is  _ some weird, prim person who can’t have fun. She asks Jared:

_ Am I some weird, prim person who doesn’t know how to have fun??  _

Jared texts back:  _ is this a joke?  _

She looks at her phone for a little bit. Then she types back:  _ Yes, I was just joking. Maybe that will be my New Years resolution.  _

Jared says:  _ what, jokes??? jokes is ur new yrs resolution?????  _

_ this feels like watching a dog stands on its hind legs and all of a sudden ur like aware that your dog has sexual organs bc they’re just flopping?? can you stop? _

And then:  _ here’s a resolution: fuck one or more of the property brothers. Bonus points if u can get all 3 (did u know they have a 3rd brother??? just some fun property brothers trivia for u) _

Alana decides that she needs to stop texting Jared, probably. It’s not polite to be on your phone at a party. It makes you look unapproachable. Alana isn’t unapproachable. She wouldn’t mind being approached.

She looks around again for the girl who smiled at her, but she doesn’t see her. The girl singing “And I Am Telling You” has thankfully stopped telling and has, against all her promises, gone. The DJ is standing on the karaoke stage, calling for volunteers. He has the weird, spikey hair that Alana associates with DJs. She appreciates that he know his aesthetic. 

Another text from Jared:  _ my resolution is to start calling people by their last name more. Like in a chill way. Also I might start wearing a hat?  _

And then a text in the family group chat. It’s a selfie of her dads, faces pressed together, clinking glasses of champagne. Alana can’t help but smile at their goofy faces, their identical rings. 

_ Cheers! Hope you’re having fun doing Teenaged Things, baby!!  _

Alana stops smiling. She looks at the selfie a little bit more and tries to figure out why she suddenly feels, like, deflated and hollow and itchy. Her tights are scratchy. 

She isn’t having fun and she’s not good at doing Teenaged Things and she can’t even think of a good New Year’s Resolution. What’s even the point of being Alana Beck if she doesn’t have a list of things to achieve? She’s like one of those sharks that can’t sleep because it will sink if it ever stops moving. 

She can’t stop moving. 

Alana decides she needs to leave. She will go back to their suite on the third floor and take a bath and then she will sit on the bed and make a list of goals. She always feels better once she’s got a list. Then she can watch the New Years’ countdown on tv and practice her audition monologue for the spring musical and think of some cute, appropriately Teenaged anecdotes to tell her dads when they ask if she had fun. 

She tells her dads:  _ Having lots of fun! Meeting lots of new acquaintances!  _

She tells Jared:  _ It depends on the hat. You have a kinda small forehead; a hat might just accentuate that.  _

Then she puts her phone away, refills her solo cup with spring rolls, and marches towards the exit. 

Only she doesn’t get very far because all of a sudden somebody is grabbing her arm and yanking, and Alana is turning indignantly to say  _ please don’t touch me _ , only there’s a microphone being thrust into her face and the karaoke DJ is saying, “Who knows! You guys might thank me for this one day.”

She regrets ever approving of his stupid, spiky hair. She hates this man, right to the tips of his weird frosted tips. She opens her mouth to say so, and then the music starts. 

The thing is, she knows the song. She sings it in the shower sometimes. The thing is, when she turns, she’s surprised to find her Potential Friend from earlier staring back. She’s got long hair and she looks, like, wildly terrified to be on stage. Her mouth is pinched tight like she has no intention of singing. For some reason, this makes Alana feel better. 

The thing is, karaoke isn’t a competition. But if it was, Alana would win. 

She turns and glares at the DJ and then she glares at the white Wanna Dreamgirl from earlier. Alana’s dad says that spite is not good for the soul, but Alana’s vocal teacher says that spite is  _ very  _ good for the voice. She belts out the first couple words and somebody  _ whoops.  _

She turns in surprise, then, when a new voice picks up the next line. This voice is not quite as confident or as spiteful, but it’s pretty in a soft, tentative kind of way. The girl smiles back at Alana shyly, tucks her hair behind her ears, and obligingly takes the higher harmony in the chorus. 

Alana thinks,  _ Oh.  _ And then,  _ okay.  _ And then she hits a high fucking C, making very intense eye contact with Wannabe Dreamgirl the whole time. 

…

Afterwards, Alana’s karaoke partner follows her out onto the deck, red-cheeked and laughing with exhilaration. 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe we did that,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ears. “My hands were shaking so bad. I can’t believe we did that.”

“It was fun,” Alana agrees. She’s smiling, too, in a loose and unfamiliar way. It’s snowing and the cold air feels good against her hot cheeks, her sweaty hands. She’s still clutching her solo cup full of spring rolls. For some reason, this makes Alana laugh aloud. 

The girl looks confused for a second, until Alana tips the cup and shows her its contents. Then she laughs too. There is snow collecting in her hair and her face is flushed with excitement or heat. 

“I’m Zoe, by the way,” she says. “You’re Alana, right? Alana Beck?”

“Oh,” says Alana, surprised. She sticks out a hand automatically, because she and her dads have spent the week at a ski lodge for rich white people. She’s done a lot of shaking hands. “Um, have we-“

“Oh, it’s okay,” says Zoe quickly. She’s wearing thick, cable-knit tights and a cool denim jacket over her dress  and her earrings are shaped like turtles. “I’m Zoe Murphy. We go to school together, but I’m the year below you. My brother- You guys did some English project one time, I think? You came for dinner.”

Alana examines her some more. She’s tall and she’s got squinty eyes and her tights are tucked into combat boots. “Your brother is Connor Murphy?”

Zoe makes a face like this is a question she gets a lot. Alana realizes it was probably not a polite thing to say. It’s like when she was in middle school and people would say  _ you’re the girl with two dads _ ? Quickly, she thinks back to the awkward week she spent in Connor Murphy’s kitchen, writing a report about Mark Twain. She remembers his sister in a vague, background-noise kind of way. She was always hunched over under a gigantic backpack and a gigantic instrument case.

She says, quickly, “You’re in the band, aren’t you?”

Zoe brightens. She has tugged the cuffs of her denim jacket over her hands, so only her yellow-painted fingernails stick out. “Jazz band, yeah! It’s- I play guitar. I’ve never done something like this before. I don’t even sing, really?”

“You should,” says Alana, and it comes out a little bit condescending but she really doesn’t mean it that way. “You have a really nice voice.”

“Not like yours,” Zoe says at once. She has a very expressive face. Lots of widening her eyes and crinkling her nose and nodding intently. “When you hit that last note? Shit, dude!”

“Thank you,” says Alana modestly. It’s not quite the correct response to  _ shit, dude  _ but she’s not really sure what else to say. Her face still feels hot and her blood’s still pumping the way it only does when she’s onstage. It’s really snowing hard now and she, like, half-registers that her arms are prickling with cold. “I really had fun.”

She means it, weirdly. She’s still smiling and she’s not even trying. Zoe is grinning back, still kinda breathing hard, and there’s snow catching in her eyelashes. Alana offers her a spring roll. They’re kinda lukewarm by now, but Zoe and Alana each crunch one. 

“Do you ski?” Alana asks. “Me and my dads come here every winter.”

“Not really,” Zoe says, shrugs. “My dad’s really into, like,  _ going into nature and surviving the elements and emerging even stronger as a family _ . But then my mom’s really into, like, saunas. So this was the compromise.”

“Oh,” says Alana. She is about to tell Zoe that she’s been skiing since she was three and she can even ski the Black Diamond trails now and that it’s a shame their high school doesn’t have a ski team because she’s really very good, but then she feels weird saying that. She’s not sure what else to say. She says, “Cool.”

Zoe laughs again and Alana’s not really sure why she’s laughing. Her spring rolls are going cold and the blood-pumping, hot-faced feeling of singing is starting to bleed away. She’s turning back into plain old Alana Beck, prim and weird and incapable of having fun. 

She asks, “Do you have any New Year’s Resolutions?”

“Oh,” says Zoe like she’s surprised. She tucks her hair behind her ears, making her dangly earrings rattle. “I- No, probably not. I think they’re kinda bullshit most of the time?”

“Oh,” says Alana. The cold is creeping through her shoes, curling her toes. “Well, I don’t think that’s true. I think they can be very constructive.”

“Oh, yeah, for sure,” Zoe says fast, like she can tell she’s said the wrong thing. Her voice pitches higher, turning up at the ends like a question. “Totally. I just mean- Literally every year my mom resolves to repaint the foyer and she never does. And then my dad tries to act like, oh, it’s the new year so that means all our shit is, like, automatically fixed, y’know?”

Alana doesn’t really know. She says, “Every year my dad swears he’s gonna stop drinking dairy, but he never does. We tried to trick him by putting almond milk in his coffee, but he could tell the difference.”

Zoe laughs. Alana is surprised by this, but encouraged. She feels like she’s reaching around in the dark for a light switch. She’s never quite sure why sometimes she finds light, why sometimes her hands only find blank wall. 

Zoe says, “Do you have one? A resolution?”

Alana opens her mouth to explain that, no, she’s been thinking all week and she can’t seem to find a goal lofty enough to get her heart racing, to pull her out of the weird heavy sadness that’s been puddling at her ankles all week. Only then she realizes that actually, yeah, she does have a resolution. 

“I’m hoping to get better at having fun,” she tells Zoe. “I don’t think I’m very good at it.”

Zoe’s mouth twists up, but she doesn’t laugh and Alana is throat-achingly grateful for that. She starts to say something, but it’s drowned out by a sudden swell of sound. Inside the lodge a hundred rich, white, sweaty teenagers are counting down from ten. 

“I think that’s a good goal,” Zoe says. “Fun is hard.”

“NINE! EIGHT!”

“I had fun tonight,” Alana says, a truth. 

“SIX! FIVE!” 

Zoe’s mouth twists up again and she tucks her hair behind her ears. Her earrings rattle. They are shaped like turtles and she has snow in her eyelashes and on the top of her head. She says, “Me, too.”

“THREE! TWO!”

Inside, the numbers dissolve into a wordless roar. Somewhere below, at the dimly-lit restaurant where Alana’s dads are drinking champagne and taking selfies, a string quartet starts to play  _ Auld Lang Sine.  _

“Happy New Year,” says Zoe, and she does these goofy little jazz hands that make Alana laugh. She tries to do them back, but her jazz fingers are inhibited by her solo cup of spring rolls. They both laugh but Zoe is kinda looking at Alana weird, eyes kinda intense and mouth slightly open, and then they both stop laughing. 

Zoe says, “This is stupid, but-“

Alana’s phone rings. They both look down. 

“Is that-“ Zoe begins. 

“The Glee cover of ‘Tainted Love?’ Yeah,” Alana sighs. Her thumb hesitates over the screen. “I should probably-“

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Zoe says quickly. “I have to- I should find Connor before he-“

She lets her sentence kinda fade away and then they’re both still standing there in the cold, not moving. A glass breaks somewhere inside the lodge and it makes them both flinch. Alana puts the phone to her face. 

“Jared?”

_ “My great aunt just kissed me on the mouth,”  _ Jared says.  _ “My rabbi is here. My rabbi saw my great aunt kiss me on the mouth.” _

It takes several minutes to persuade Jared to stop making dry-heaving noises into the phone. Zoe has disappeared back into the lodge, a series of smudged footprints in the snow. Alana eats her last spring roll. It’s cold in the middle. 

“I thought of a resolution,” she says. 

“Hey, yeah, wait,” says Jared. “Do I have a small forehead? Have I lived seventeen years with some sort of three-head?”

“Your great aunt seems to think it’s fine,” Alana says cruelly. 

“Fuck you,” Jared says. Then, “Was that a joke? Did you just make a joke?”

“I don’t know, probably. I’m having a weird night.”

“You’re talking to a boy whose mouth was just kissed by an eighty-seven year-old Jewish woman.”

“I don’t think I’m very good at having fun,” Alana says. “I think that’s my resolution.”

“To have fun?” Jared confirms. 

“To-  I mean, I  _ have  _ had fun,” Alana says, feeling defensive. “I just mean-“

“Right,” says Jared, “years ago. Before the flood.”

“Go kiss your aunt,” Alana tells him, and hangs up. 

She goes inside but she doesn’t see Zoe, and several visibly-drunk adolescents are burbling their way through “Build Me Up, Buttercup” and Alana can’t really stand for that, morally. She goes up to the suite and practices her audition monologue until she hears the keycard in the door. Then she flips the light off and pretends to be asleep when her dads come in, so she doesn’t have to disappoint them with her stupid stories about a night that she was barely a part of. 

It is a new year.   
  



	2. looking from the outside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alana is not having fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiya! here's chapter 2! thanks for reading!!

Everything is better once school starts again, because there is a routine. Alana is very good at routines. As long as she keeps busy, power-walking from one class to the next, there is no time to feel anything negative and unproductive. 

Before homeroom, she ducks into the yearbook room and looks over the new mock-ups. Dana P. has done a shitty job with the Meet The Faculty! page and so Alana spends a few blissfully scornful minutes rearranging it. This leaves her with just enough time to power-walk to homeroom, sliding into her seat at the front of the room just before the bell. 

From her seat, Alana is in the perfect position to exchange a look of commiseration with Ms. Darbus when Connor Murphy slumps in late, hands tucked into his sleeves, smelling of pot. 

“Detention, Mr. Murphy,” Mrs. Darbus says. “Once again.”

“Dope,” says Connor without expression. 

Mrs. Darbus starts to lecture him on the importance of an elevated vocabulary, only then she has to stop as several basketball jocks stumble in late. One of them, a boy with extremely swoopy hair, bumps a hip into Alana’s desk and jostles her papers. 

“Sorry,” he says without even turning his head. 

For a second, she feels horribly small. Crushable. Unseen. Alana straightens her papers until this feeling goes away and then she raises her hand until Mrs. Darbus nods at her. 

“I was wondering if I could be excused to make the morning announcements?” 

Mrs. Darbus has informed Alana several times that she doesn’t need to ask to be excused; she can just go. But sometimes Alana likes to ask. She likes people to look at her, even if it’s only to roll their eyes. She makes sure that her voice has extra pep! and zest! when she reads the announcements aloud: 

“And don’t forget! Auditions begin today for the spring musical! All are welcome. No prior experience required! Try-outs start promptly at 2:45 in the auditorium and will end promptly at 4!” 

She looks for Zoe Murphy in the hallways between classes, but she doesn’t see her. 

Jared finds her after fourth period, slouched under his backpack. He’s wearing a hat. It makes his forehead look small. Alana is still a little bit mad at him because of New Years, but also she and her dads have had a lot of talks about how it’s hard to be a high school boy when you don’t fit the popular mold of masculinity and how Jared is probably repressing a lot of insecurity, and so she doesn’t make a comment about the hat. 

“I know,” Jared snaps before she can even say hi. “I tried it out. It’s not working. I’m aware.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Alana tells him kindly. 

She retrieves the key from her backpack and lets them into the auditorium, closing the door quietly behind them and takes her first full, deep breath of the day. The auditorium is empty and quiet and dark, except for the lamps on a few music stands, left lit by some careless orchestra kids. She takes the steps down towards the stage slowly, ceremoniously, two feet on every stair. 

Jared follows, slumped under the weight of his backpack and his misguided hat, but Alana can see the tension draining from his shoulders.  

Jared is probably Alana’s friend.

A friend. At the very least, he is a good acquaintance. They’ve been doing shows together since middle-school and they have auditioned together for four straight years now. Sometimes Jared is mean and Alana knows that high school is toxic and masculinity is a prison et cetera et cetera, but really it’s the way Jared’s shoulders go lax when he steps into the auditorium that makes Alana keep forgiving him. It is the one thing that he can’t seem to stop caring about. 

Alana straps on her tap shoes. Jared starts playing the intro to “A Thousand Miles” on the rehearsal piano. He only knows that first run and he plays it badly. Alana tolerates it for a minute and then she says, “Please stop.”

He stops. Alana plugs her phone into the speaker and moves to center stage. They go through the song once, twice, three times until Alana’s starting to sweat and her toes start to ache. 

“I wish you wouldn’t do that stupid voice on the bridge. It feels so campy.”

“It’s funny,” Jared says stubbornly. “This is musical theater. Camp is, like, the whole point.”

“It’s not a  _ joke _ ,” Alana says. 

“It is  _ kind of a joke _ , actually.”

“Let’s do it again. Let’s do it  _ once  _ without the voice and then you’ll see-“

“Fuck off, let me eat my carrot sticks. If I don’t eat, my stomach growls all through sixth period. People are gonna think I’ve got some rare male eating disorder.”

“That’s offensive,” Alana tells him, but she sits down and unstraps her tap shoes. She accepts a carrot stick when Jared offers it. 

They eat on the worn stage floor, pocked with a million shoe-scuffs and paint flecks and bits of duct tape. The overhead lights buzz vaguely, emitting a thin yellow light. Alana feels okay and she wonders if that means she’s having fun. 

“Maybe we could go watch the basketball game after callbacks,” Jared says eventually. “Evan says they’re, like, monumentally shitty this year.”

“Basketball?” Alana repeats, bewildered. Jared scowls and shoves another carrot stick in his mouth like he’s already regretting this proposal. 

“I don’t know, dude. You said you wanted to have fun. I’m trying to facilitate some fucking fun.”

“Oh,” says Alana, weirdly touched. “Okay. I don’t really believe in sports. I think they reinforce toxic masculinity.”

“Fine, a women’s basketball game, then,” Jared says. “Aggressive women in ponytails. You’ll like that.”

“That’s offensive,” Alana says. “But I appreciate your intentions.”

Jared looks embarrassed by this. He flips her off and busies himself with eating his sandwich in, like, the grossest possible manner. Alana gets up and brushes herself off, practices Double Time Steps until Jared gets annoyed and tells her to stop. 

“I think I’m nervous,” she says, breathing hard as she scuffs a heel across the worn wood. “This is our senior show. This is our last one.”

“Please don’t talk about it,” Jared says. 

“No, you’re right,” Alana agrees. She sets her gaze on the top row of empty auditorium seats and adjusts her skirt and clicks through another perfect Time Step. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. “This is fun. This will be fun. I’m having fun.”

…

Alana is not having fun. She doesn’t really understand why she’s not having fun, because everything is going to plan. Usually Alana loves when things go as planned. If she could live inside a heist movie montage, she would. 

The musical audition goes perfectly, as planned. Alana’s belt is crisp and everybody laughs when Jared does his stupid, campy voice during the bridge.

Dana P. makes a pouty face when Alana explains that they don’t need the piano accompanist, but that does not bother Alana. It is more practical to just play the instrumental recording from Alana’s phone, because Dana P. always drags the tempo no matter how much Alana snaps her fingers and taps her toes and counts loudly, “ _ One,  _ two, three.  _ One,  _ two, three.” 

She and Jared audition first, and then Jared slinks away to go make dick jokes with the AV Club, so Alana sits next to Mrs. Darbus in the first row and watches the rest of the auditions, taking careful notes into a spiral notebook. There are several good auditions, including a surprisingly good freshman soprano, but none of them are as good as Alana or Jared. They will get the leads. It isn’t even a question. 

But she isn’t having fun. 

It is 4:03 and Mrs. Darbus is stuffing her stack of sheet music back into her bag. Alana is waiting for her so that they can walk out together, as planned. Alana will make a wry joke about how temperamental accompanists always are and Mrs. Darbus will laugh and then she will ask Alana what she thought of the auditions, like they are equals. She will not ask who Alana thinks is right for the lead, because that is a given. As planned. 

Then Alana will get in her car and call Jared from the parking lot and tell him what Mrs. Darbus said and Jared will make some joke about student-teacher affairs and maybe sing that fucked-up Police song and Alana will inevitably get mad and hang up on him, as planned. Then she will go home and when her dads ask about her day, she will be able to smile and tell them exactly how much fun she had. So much fun. A very appropriate and adolescent amount of fun. A normal and stable amount of fun. She might even convince herself. Alana is very good at telling convincing dinner-table anecdotes. 

That is the plan. Alana is going to have fun, as planned, as soon as Mrs. Darbus finishes packing away her sheet music. Someone from the AV Club is shutting off the overhead lights one by one, a series of progressing darknesses. Dana P. is pulling the cloth back over the piano, taking her sweet fucking time about it, still sulking over Alana’s snub. 

Then somebody yells “ _ Wait!!!!”  _ from the back of the auditorium. 

Dana P. drops her stack of music, unreasonably dramatic for a member of the pit band. Alana turns on one heel to glare at the newcomer, and then she doesn’t glare because Zoe Murphy is running down the steps, dwarfed by the enormous guitar on her back, ponytail bouncing behind her. 

“Wait,” Zoe says again, panting. She comes to a wobbly halt at the bottom of the stairs, steadying herself against a row of seats. “Is it too late to- I want to audition, I think?”

“You think?” Mrs. Darbus says imperiously. She puffs her chest so that her ropes of beads click and rattle in an impressive manner. “Do you  _ think  _ or do you  _ know _ ?”

“I- know?” Zoe says uncertainly. Then, more firmly, “I know. I want to audition.”

She looks past Mrs. Darbus’ impressive form, sees Alana, and gives her a bright wave. Alana is torn between annoyance and something else. She does not like people who disrespect the conventions of the theater but also she likes that Zoe is waving at her. She tries to wave back while also looking disapproving, and it mostly just looks like she’s swatting a fly. 

“Unfortunately,” Mrs. Darbus is saying, “you have arrived after auditions have closed. The theater waits for no man, nor woman.  _ And  _ it appears you do not have a partner. It is customary, I’m afraid, for our aspiring ac _ tors _ to audition in pairs.”

“In pairs-“ Zoe looks at Alana again for a second, like she’s waiting for Alana to intervene or maybe volunteer to be her partner or something. Alana looks back at her blankly and feels her stomach sour. She is not having fun. 

“I’ll-“ Somebody tries, fizzles, and then tries again louder. “I’ll be her partner. I’ll-“

For the first time, Alana notices that Zoe is not alone in her interrupting crusade. Standing halfway up the steps, shifting from one foot to the other, is a slightly hunched-over boy that Alana vaguely recognizes. Evan Hansen. He trails behind Jared sometimes and mostly just ducks his head when Jared says shitty things to him, doesn’t fight back. 

Zoe’s face goes sunshine-bright, ponytail whipping as she turns to smile up at Evan gratefully. Alana feels a sudden, twisting sadness in her stomach. Also, resentment. They are late. They are disrespecting the rules of theater. 

“I have a partner!” Zoe says in triumph, turning back to Mrs. Darbus. “I have a partner. Please, I know we’re late but I had jazz band rehearsal and Mr. Bernitt just kept going on and on about his college days and-“

Mrs. Darbus’ mouth quirks up for a second. Alana’s heart sinks. The surest way to Mrs. Darbus’ heart is to talk shit about musicians. Alana has been quietly and mercilessly destroying the reputation of the school’s orchestra conductor for three full years now, all in the pursuit of this. Senior year, lead of the spring musical. This is the plan. This is the plan. Zoe Murphy is not part of the plan. 

“It’s after four,” Alana says. She doesn’t mean to. Something tight and clicking and mechanical in her throat just spits it out. “You  _ specifically said _ -“

Zoe’s eyebrows come together and her mouth falls open a little bit. It makes Alana think about standing on the deck of the ski lodge in the snow at midnight, Zoe’s mouth falling slightly open, only it’s actually the exact opposite of that. 

Zoe’s hands tighten on the strap of her guitar case, hurt. 

Evan comes down the steps haltingly like he’s walking towards his execution. Step, step, pause, sway. Step, step, pause, facial tick. He’s wearing a striped polo and he holds his arms like he doesn’t know what to do with them. Last semester he was wearing a cast. It’s off now, but he still holds himself like his bones are broken. 

“She has a- a really good voice,” he says, hands moving ceaselessly along the hem of his polo. “Please let her. You’ve gotta hear her sing-“

“Alas,” says Mrs. Darbus, grand even in her disappointments, “it is after four o’clock.”

Zoe’s face falls. Evan blinks in a sort of resigned, crushed way. Alana’s throat tightens like she might say something cruel again. In an effort to stop herself, she turns on a heel and starts up the steps and keeps her mouth clamped shut. To her shameful and eternal relief, she hears Mrs. Darbus’ heels clicking after her. They are leaving. 

Alana has just reached the door, has pushed it open towards freedom, towards the lead of the spring musical, when Dana P. — that fucking traitor, that second-class pianist — plays the opening notes to the audition song. Alana walks faster. Practically a run. She turns back to hold the door for Mrs. Darbus.

One of Mrs. Darbus’ ridiculous and ugly high heels crosses the threshold, and then. 

Zoe starts to sing. Unpracticed and unsure, but also high, sweet, curling up at the edges. Mrs. Darbus pauses. And then, shockingly, Evan. Low and warm and tremulous. Fucking Dana P. transitions into the chorus. The tempo is lagging and there are no frills. No pep. No pizzazz. No showmanship. Not a jazz square in sight. 

Mrs. Darbus stops, turns, and then she starts back down the stairs, beads clicking decisively. 

Alana’s hand loses its grip on the handle. The door slips, shuts in her face, shutting the music inside and shutting Alana out.    
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wahoo follow me on [tumblr](https://charactershoesfic.tumblr.com) if you wanna chat! I'm friendly and nice but also I do routinely ghost my own tumblr for weeks at a time so like fair warning I guess 
> 
> and let me know what you think!! thanks love you bye xx


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